THERE WAS THE TIME Mike and I transported a car from Memphis to Biloxi after putting the newspaper to bed one night. A favor for his Dad, the job turned into one of those film noir comic-adventures that we usually conjured up fictionally for our student rag rather than one that we actually lived out.

The car was one of those early-‘70s ocean liners whose radio barely picked up the country stations as we barreled through the Mississippi darkness. The coffee and candy bars failed us eventually, and one of us was soon snoring in the passenger seat while the other (OK, me) was head-bob dozing behind the wheel. That’s when our ocean liner became an airliner, sailing wheels-up onto some farmer’s field.

We – and the car – survived intact, although I assure you no one had trouble staying awake for the rest of the drive after that. Later that afternoon in Biloxi, in another strange turn, we witnessed our first and only KKK rally from the hotel balcony as the white sheets marched down an ocean-front boulevard.

*  *  *

My life with Mike Berry was pleasantly intense, drenched as it was in our salad days as the college-boy Mambo Kings of Memphis State University. The wit flowed like the taps of Lowenbrau Dark at our favorite campus dive, Garibaldi’s.

Short on cash but long on hair, we were drawn together by the post-Watergate-era romance of journalism. We plied our craft in the workshop that was the school newspaper, although Mike was always the more seasoned practitioner among us. I learned as much from him as I did in any J-class.

Quiet, thoughtful and a skillful listener, Mike wowed you with his insights – sometimes comic, sometimes deep, sometimes both at the same time. I recall one column dashed off for our beloved rag titled “Spiders Aren’t Such Bad Guys.” Ostensibly about his admiration for the spider’s inner beauty and spunk, it nevertheless weaved in astute observations about our Marine force in Lebanon, the arms race, human rights abuses in El Salvador, and Poland’s martial authoritarians. (Remember Poland?) “We all have our worries,” it concluded. “So the next time you see a spider, give it some credit before you step on it.”

His internship at Memphis Magazine, I thought at the time, was just the first step toward a career of clever observations at the likes of The New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly. Mike was the one I knew would find some level of fame with his writing. And who’s to say he didn’t. Still, I always waited for that book, that tale that only Mike could spin. Sadly, that possibility seems to be the victim of adult distractions and detours. And a thoughtless hit-and-run driver.

I’m thankful and lucky he shared his time on this planet with me and the others in our college coterie. Mike seemed to be the deep but funny soul of our body of creative misfits. I’m sure the passage of time has romanticized it all for me now, but I know the friendship was deep and real, then and now.

*  *  *

Music was probably the other thread of our friendship. I still have a cassette mix tape – although, hilariously, no longer a cassette player – that Mike made for me years after our college days. Songs about summer, they were. We also spent more than a few nights on the Square, listening to local favorites. One gorgeous gal, whose name is now lost to time, performed a cover of Twist and Shout that rivaled the Fab Four version.

Dylan, of course, was a common interest – some might say a common obsession. Mike was the evangelist who converted many to followers of the folk-rock poet. We marveled at the mystery and artistry and imagery of Dylan’s lyrics. The songs transported us to places we wanted to be, maybe the lobby of the Peabody Hotel where a crooked detective or a spy or a smoky lady might buy us a drink and inspire another story.

I’ve already been relistening to those songs as I remember our time and as I struggle to understand Mike’s tragic death. I’m glad he shared his life with me. I’ll cherish the last few conversations we had. I wish there had been more.

I’ll close my remembrance with one Dylan verse that seems to stick with me more now than the others.

She turned around to look at me
As I was walking away
I heard her say over my shoulder
“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue”
Tangled up in blue